


We're just two slow dancers, last ones out

by PeterParkers7EvilExes (antimone_ii)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Coach/Player Relationship, Heavy Petting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 09:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimone_ii/pseuds/PeterParkers7EvilExes
Summary: In the gymnasium nothing ever feels different - they don’t exchange sultry looks or lingering touches, Tony still barks at him when he fucks up a routine and Peter still snarks back just as before. But when they practice well into the evening and it’s just the two of them, Peter will corner Tony to kiss him, and every time without fail, Tony grabs him around the waist and pulls him close, kissing back hungrily like he’s been waiting all day to do the exact same thing.But Tony never initiates, and he never lets it go further than that, always pushing Peter away gently and saying it’s getting late or some other excuse.It drives Petermad.





	We're just two slow dancers, last ones out

**Author's Note:**

> The one where Peter tries to seduce his gymnastics coach into bed with him. I am not a gymnast so I am 99% sure that this isn't how any of it works but I _have_ had inappropriate crushes on my sportsball coaches. Peter is 20 years old in this fic.

Peter has had few crushes in his short, two decades of life. Sure, he got married to MJ on the playground in second grade and he watched _Revenge of the Sith_ at least once a day when it came out because of Anakin Skywalker, but he’s never thought of himself as a very lovelorn kind of person.

The only _real_ crush that has ever plagued Peter’s daydreams and filled his temperamental, erotic teenage fantasies is for his gymnastics coach.

When he started gymnastics as a child, Mr. Stark was just his mentor, a wholly platonic father figure. Mr. Stark saw a kid with too much grief and restlessness and showed him how to channel that into explosive energy in the gymnasium - taught him how to swing himself across bars, spring meters high into the sky and build power from his own body. It was Mr. Stark who built Peter’s confidence, who let Peter cry into his shoulder over failed routines, who taught him to learn from his failures and turned him into a nationally ranked athlete.

And then somewhere along the way (probably after his fifth wet dream about Mr. Stark helping him with his stretches), Peter discovered he had the world’s biggest, unrequited crush on his coach. At the time, Peter had thought he was being discreet about it - the lovesick looks he’d cast at Mr. Stark, the hopeful way he leaned into his hugs - but that was at the tender naive age of 15. Now, Peter realizes with a grimace, he was painfully obvious.

Somewhere further along the way, he was asked to start calling Mr. Stark ‘Tony’, because “You’re in college now, Pete, it’s weird”. And then a little after that, well, that’s when the kissing started.

Nothing really romantic or even _good_ at first - in classic Parker style, it was actually horribly embarrassing. Drunk and stranded at a college party, Peter had called the only adult who he could count on to not flay him alive and Tony gladly picked him up from the shitty frat rager of the week out on Long Island. Sometime during the car ride back to Queens, Peter had gotten it in his head that he would seduce Tony. He exaggeratedly arched his back in what he envisioned was a devastatingly sexy burlesque show (Tony later assured him it just looked like Peter was having a seizure), and while they were stuck in weekend 2 AM traffic five blocks from home, Peter leaned over the center console and kissed Tony.

From there, things didn’t escalate exactly - but they _continued_. In the gymnasium nothing ever feels different - they don’t exchange sultry looks or lingering touches, Tony still barks at him when he fucks up a routine and Peter still snarks back just as before. But when they practice well into the evening and it’s just the two of them, Peter will corner Tony to kiss him, and every time without fail, Tony grabs him around the waist and pulls him close, kissing back hungrily like he’s been waiting all day to do the exact same thing. But Tony never initiates, and he never lets it go further than that, always pushing Peter away gently and saying it’s getting late or some other excuse.

It drives Peter _mad_.

And now, with qualifiers coming up in a week, Tony’s been even more guarded than usual. He always gets this way - tense and a bit of an asshole right before meets (Peter saw him reduce one of the other coaches to tears on Monday), but this is the worst it’s ever been. It’s arguably the most important competitive event of both their careers, but where stress turns Tony into a human cactus, Peter craves comfort and affirmation. And he’s horny, like, all the time. Although that might be just because he’s 20 and Tony hasn’t let him kiss him in nearly a month, and Peter’s about to go off the walls in withdrawal.

“Hey coach,” he greets Tony from where he’s been waiting in the empty gymnasium, perched on top of the balance beam and swinging his legs. Tony grunts in response, shrugging off his winter jacket and hanging it up.

Peter jumps down and stretches his arms over his head, letting his tank top rise up his stomach. Tony isn’t looking, to his annoyance - he’s busy flipping through his notebook for today’s plan. He springs off the beam and sneaks up behind Tony, leaning into the older man’s space. “Can we start with the Yurchenko vault today?” He asks, hooking his chin over Tony’s shoulder.

Tony smells heavenly, like he always does - he wears a sophisticated cologne that stays present on his skin even after a full day at the gym, and his aftershave is something pleasantly piney. It makes for an intoxicating cocktail that sends arousal curling in Peter’s stomach just by being close to him.

“Nope,” Tony says, closing his notebook and knocking his head against Peter’s lightly. “Do your stretches.”

“But _Tony_ ,” Peter whines, pouting at him. “I already stretched myself!”

Tony’s eyes widen incrementally, and a flash of pleasure shoots up Peter’s spine as he realizes the unintentional innuendo. “I don’t care, you’re not spraining something right before qualifiers,” Tony says gruffly, and Peter spins on his heel, a delighted grin on his face as he turns away.

They have the gymnasium to themselves since it’s late evening - Peter takes the opportunity to do his stretches, making more of a show with flexing his shoulders and pulling the arch of his foot over his head than _strictly_ necessary. It’s for naught though - Tony’s engrossed in his notebook again when he turns around.

“Walk through the floor routine first,” Tony says, waving his hand at the long mats. “Three times each, and talk me through each one before you do it.”

Peter sighs but does as he’s told. This is the easy part - Peter doesn’t feel as intimidated when it’s just himself flying through the air, springing into form and landing on the balls of his feet. Tony knows this too - it’s his ‘confidence builder’, Tony had told him, why he has Peter start every event with the floor so he doesn’t get stuck in his own head.

Tony claps his hands after he does the last one and throws Peter his water bottle. “Looks good. Don’t get complacent with the last salto - I saw your left foot stutter,” he warns. “Let’s move onto the vault table.”

Peter nods, rotating his heel on the mat. Tony runs him through it at least twenty times, forcing him to rely on muscle memory alone instead of the individual steps of the vault. Again and again, Peter sprints down the runway, rounds off the springboard and pushes off the vault table. He’s struggling with the landing though, stumbling and falling until his thighs are covered in bruises and his muscles are aching sore.

With his current routine, Peter will likely get enough points to beat last year’s score, but Tony has higher ambitions for him. He needs to land a perfect Yurchenko at this event to get enough points to make it to champs, and if he slips on the landing at qualifiers, his season’s done. Peter huffs in frustration as his ankle falters, and he falls hard on the side of his hip.

“Again!” Tony claps his hands, loud and echoing in the emptied gymnasium. He crosses his arms over his chest, his face set and stern. “C’mon Parker, focus up. Don’t think about the individual steps. You’ve landed a double-double a thousand times before, you could do it in your sleep.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter nods and stretches his arms out over his head. He runs along the mat, folds into the vault and launches himself into the twist. On the landing this time, he stumbles again but at least stays upright, catching himself with a quick step backwards.

“Better!” Tony shouts triumphantly, pumping his fist in the air. “Feel that? That was a thirteen, easy.”

Peter grins at him. “That was lucky,” he says, though he’s laughing breathlessly and his heart soars at Tony’s delighted expression.

Tony shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t luck.” He steps forward into Peter’s space, and his breath catches in his throat as Tony taps his forehead. “Your body knows what to do. Sort out what’s in here and you’re already at champs.”

Against his better judgment, Peter exhales slowly and nods, leaning into Tony’s hand. For a heart-stopping moment, he feels his fingers curl gently in his hair, and Peter blinks slowly up at Tony, staring up at him through his eyelashes. He leans up on his tiptoes and presses his lips against Tony’s, kissing him for the first time in weeks.

When Tony doesn’t move away, Peter winds his arms around his neck and pulls him closer. They stumble together backwards and fall to the mat, and Peter laughs as the back of his head bounces off the angled springboard, gently thunking his forehead against Tony’s. He parts his knees and drags Tony down by the front of his shirt, licking needily into his mouth and moaning softly when Tony kisses him back.

Finally, Tony puts his hands on Peter. He feels his fingers pressing into his jaw, angling his face up to meet him as his other hand curls tight in the hair at the back of his head. Peter can’t help wrapping his thighs around his middle, and Tony responds by tugging his hair a little, pressing him down into the mat.

Peter whimpers into his mouth and grinds his hips up against Tony’s, already hard against his thigh. He whines when Tony pulls away, staring up at him with his eyes hooded drowsily. “Tony,” he begs, tightening his thighs around his waist for fear he’s going to leave.

“Look at you,” Tony rasps. He cups Peter’s cheek gently, brushing a thumb reverently over his lips. Blinking slowly up at him, Peter swipes his tongue over the calloused pad of his thumb. Something in Tony’s eyes darkens, and Peter whimpers again, rocking himself up against Tony.

The moment shatters, and Tony jerks his hand away like he’s been burned. He wrenches himself free from Peter’s legs and pushes himself to his feet, clearing his throat loudly and turning around.

“Enough,” Tony says in a rough voice. “C’mon, we gotta close up and get you home or May’s gonna have my head.” Peter watches him as he goes around the gymnasium, shutting off the lights and he tamps down the disappointment heavy in his chest.

As Tony closes up, he tugs on an oversized hoodie and sweatpants over his leotard and waits by the door. “Don’t you have a coat?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow at him as he digs around for his keys.

“Lost it,” Peter shrugs.

Tony rolls his eyes and takes his own winter jacket off the hook, throwing it at him. Peter grins and pulls it on, nuzzling his face into the puffy lining. It smells just like Tony. He blinks at him with wide eyes. “What about you?”

“Can’t have you getting sick right before qualifiers,” Tony says simply.

He drops Peter off at home and insists he keep his jacket until he can find his own again. Peter reluctantly agrees, and as he watches Tony’s car pull away into the dark winter night, he ducks his nose into the jacket lining and inhales deep.

 

* * *

  
Qualifiers are two hours upstate in a small town whose only claim to fame is its Olympic-size gymnasium. Since May is needed at the hospital what with flu season peaking, she can’t make it to see Peter compete so it’s just him and Tony today.

Last night, as Peter fell asleep, he’d guiltily fantasized about getting to roadtrip alone with his coach - kissing Tony in the car, maybe going down on him, getting Tony to finally fuck him in the backseat after a victorious day at qualifiers - but the whole car ride up, any horniness Peter might have felt is totally drowned out by the anxiety churning in his gut. He spends the entire two hours clutching at his stomach and staring blankly at the falling snow as it coats the highway.

They pull up to the venue, visible by the massive banner declaring ‘ _US Gymnastics National Qualifier - Registration_ ’ plastered to the side of the building. Peter swallows around the lump in his throat and turns to Tony with wild eyes. “I feel sick,” he says, his palms going cold and clammy.

Tony glances aside at him as he parks the car. He reaches over and shuts the radio off, then to Peter’s surprise, he takes his hands in his. “Peter.” Tony meets his eyes, inky dark and earnest. “You know everything there is to know. You’ve done these routines a thousand times each.” He strokes his thumb over the back of his hand, warm and soothing. “You’re gonna be just fine, kid.”

Peter bites his lip and steadies his breathing. “What if I disappoint you?” he asks in a small voice, lowering his eyes, unable to hold Tony’s gaze.

At that, Tony barks out a short laugh. “Pete, you could march in there and flip all the judges off and you wouldn’t disappoint me. Don’t do that,” he adds hastily with a crooked smile, “but I know how hard you’ve worked, okay? Whatever happens, happens. You’ve earned the right to be here and compete today. You hear me?”

Exhaling shakily, Peter nods. “Okay.” He wrinkles his nose and looks at Tony shyly. “Can I have a kiss? Um, for good luck?”

Tony pauses and for a terrifying moment, Peter thinks he’s pushed too far. But Tony just glances around the snowy parking lot and, satisfied they’re alone, he wraps a hand around the back of Peter’s neck and presses their lips together. Peter’s heartbeat thumps deafeningly in his ears and he tries to memorize the gentle scratch of Tony’s goatee on his skin, curling his fingers in Tony’s shirtfront to tug them closer together.

Too soon, Tony breaks apart and clears his throat. “C’mon, let’s go. Text May we’re here so she doesn’t blow up my phone.”

Inside the venue, mats and equipment line the gymnasium wall-to-wall, rows of judges’ tables interspersed at each section. Gymnasts who aren’t competing just yet stretch out in an adjoining room, chatting idly with their coaches and accompanying family while they wait for their times or sit in nervous anticipation.

Tony guides them toward the floor area, keeping a warm hand solid on Peter’s shoulder and he instinctively leans into Tony’s touch. Once they check in, Tony makes him warm up on the mats while he sits in front of him and points out the other coaches and judges. He regales Peter with the time he and his friend Barnes were judges at States a few years ago and got so drunk at the closing reception, Barnes tried to do a Shirai triple and fractured his skull on the drinks table. Peter laughs loudly into his shoulder and when an irate mother glares at them from across the warm-up room, Tony shushes him dramatically, putting a warm hand on the small of his back as he pushes him into a deeper stretch. Peter knows Tony’s just distracting him to stop him from spiraling, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Too soon, Peter has to get ready for his first event. Tony leads him to the floor and, before he takes the mat, he squeezes Peter’s fingers gently in his. It’s a small gesture, but it ignites something in his chest that makes him feel powerful.

He bounces on the mat a few times, testing the give, and when the head judge gives him a little nod, he sprints forward. He arcs into his first pass easily with an aerial cartwheel and lands lightly in the opposite corner of the mat, turning on his heel. Muscle memory guides him into his second pass, each turn and twist of his body intimately familiar as he vaults through the air, his blood singing in his ears and his heart racing. He arcs seamlessly through his third, fourth and fifth passes. On the end of his sixth, he tucks into an Arabian double front and lands on the balls of his feet back in the corner where he started, arms outstretched over his head and breathing hard. He bows for the judges and, when the head judge gives him a little wink as she claps demurely, he lets out a shaky breath.

Tony takes him by the shoulders and squeezes him tight. “Really good, Pete,” he says in a quiet, low voice. Peter beams up at Tony, leaning into his chest. He sits Peter against the wall as they wait for the judges to compile their scores.

He knows he did well on the floor routine - it’s his strong suit and based off of Tony’s expression, Peter isn’t too concerned about his score. “How’d I do, coach?”

“Killed it,” Tony says with a grin. He flips the folder open and shows Peter his score. 14.15. Peter squeaks and makes to grab for the folder but Tony neatly tucks it under his arm, folding it away. “Nope, paws off.” Peter bounces in his seat, staring at Tony with wide eyes as he begs silently. “You can read the judges’ notes _later_ , I don’t want them getting in your head.” He laughs when Peter sticks his lower lip out in a pout and crosses his arms.

“You’re no fun,” Peter says, although he grins as the nerves ease just a fraction from his chest.

With his floor results, he needs 13.15 on his vault to guarantee a spot at Champs - just a little less than what Tony had prepared him to try and aim for. As they wait for his turn on the vaults, Peter shoots off a text to May with an update. He looks up from his phone and catches Tony staring at him, his dark eyes soft and fond.

Unlike the times at home though, when Tony would quickly look away with embarrassment and loudly move onto the next routine, he doesn’t avert his eyes this time. “I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.

Peter swallows around the lump that’s formed in his throat. “Tony–”

“Don’t,” Tony says quickly, shaking his head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, listen.” Peter leans over the mat and grabs Tony by the wrist. “Before I go out there, I wanna let you know that all you’ve done for me - not just, you know, but _all_ of it, Tony… It means everything.” Tony blinks at him, surprised but quiet. He leans in like he maybe wants to kiss him, but Peter gets to his feet, pulling Tony up with him. “C’mon, old man,” he says.

When they get to the vaults, Peter takes his time sitting cross-legged on the floor and closing his eyes, imagining his body leaping through the air with every turn and twist he needs to make. He uses the breathing exercises Tony’s taught him and he tunes out everything else, willing his heartbeat to steady.

Adrenaline buzzing in his veins, Peter slowly stands and makes his way over to the mat when it’s his turn, rotating his ankles and bouncing lightly on the tips of his toes.

“Parker, Peter?” Asks a judge, looking up from his sheaf of papers.

“Yes, sir,” Peter says shakily.

“Whenever you’re ready, son.”

Peter inhales slowly through his nose, exhales in a long, steady huff through his mouth. He centers himself along the mat, holding his arms out as he eyes the vault table that stands tall at the end of the runway. In the millisecond before he moves, his gaze flits to the side of the mat and he meets Tony’s eyes. Tony gives him the slightest of smiles and nods, and in that moment, Peter feels the remnants of his fear evaporate.

Although Peter’s body springs into action, time seems to slow down as he launches himself down the runway at a sprint. His mind is blissfully clear as he leaps into a handspring and his feet connect with the center of the angled springboard, propelling his momentum into the vault table ahead. His fingertips graze over the table and he pushes off, soaring high into the air into his first spin - his body twists on instinct again and again through the sky in milliseconds - and with his arms outstretched, Peter lands on the tips of his toes with his knees bent for stability - he wavers for a second - then he plants his heels down on the mat, beams at the judges’ table, and bows.

Peter steps off the mat and catches his breath as Tony guides him around the shoulders and squeezes his arm tight.

They don’t say anything as they stand by the wall to wait. Tony offers him a chair but Peter shakes his head tightly, too wound up to be seated. It takes the judges an excruciatingly long time to compile their scores, and Peter can’t keep his eyes off the backs of their heads. When they finish, Peter watches, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, as Tony takes the manila folder back to the wall.

They just need 13.15. That's it.

Tony’s as nervous as he is - his hands are shaking and Peter meets his eyes, inhaling in quick, shallow breaths. “You ready?” 

Peter nods.

He flips open the first page and Peter stares, uncomprehending at the numbers in the little box.

14.28.

Peter has to read it three times over before the numbers sink in. His heart pounding a drum in his chest, Peter’s eyes snap up to Tony’s. Tony is staring back at him, his eyes dark and intense.

“I’m going to Champs,” he says breathlessly. “I’m going to–”

Tony grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him. It’s a quick, hungry thing - Tony kisses him like he’ll die if he doesn’t get to touch Peter and far too quickly, he pulls away, breathing hard.

As he blinks dazedly up at Tony, Peter tries for a moment to collect his thoughts but gives up when all he can think is a nonsensical litany of ‘ _Tony, Champs, Tony_ ’. He pushes himself up on his tiptoes and throws his arms around Tony’s neck, pressing their lips together again. He whines when he feels his coach’s hands at his hips, gently trying to nudge him down and he bites at Tony’s lower lip, grinning when he lets out a muffled curse.

He lets go reluctantly but keeps his arms linked around Tony’s neck, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. “We’re going to _Champs_ ,” he breathes, the very words sending another surge of giddiness through his heart.

“You should’ve seen yourself.” Tony cups his face gently in his palms, rubbing his fingertips reverently over Peter’s skin. “You were perfect, Pete. You’re perfect.”

 

* * *

  
Tony makes him call May afterwards and tell her the good news. After she finishes yelling into her phone with enthusiasm, she warns them that the roads have gotten icy and - sure enough, by the time they head back out to Tony’s car, the parking lot is blanketed in a thick layer of snow.

“News is warning about black ice,” Tony says, consulting his phone as they shiver in the car and blast the heating.

“We probably shouldn’t risk driving back.” Peter looks slyly at Tony. “Might be safer to get a hotel for the night, coach. I mean, it’s already dark, the roads probably aren’t even plowed or anything.”

Tony gives him a wry expression but, to Peter’s astonishment, he plays along. “You may be right. Safety first and all.”

“And,” Peter says lightly, “maybe we should share a room. Um. To… save money.” The look Tony sends him is enough to make Peter have to physically squeeze his legs together. “Please, Tony?” he adds breathlessly.

“I saw a Holiday Inn not too far from here,” Tony says gruffly, backing out of the lot. Snow crunches under the tires, deafeningly loud as they drive out, and Peter leans over the center console to kiss Tony on the cheek.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://peterparkers7evilexes.tumblr.com/).


End file.
